


Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart

by ereshai



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Danger, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Maria Hill/Natasha Romanov, Parkour, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2887820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/pseuds/ereshai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil likes Clint more than he should, so he's just going to distance himself until he gets things under control. Too bad Clint isn't cooperating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meloenijs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meloenijs/gifts).



> Many thanks to notaredshirt for brainstorming with me, and helping me figure out how to get this fic where I wanted it to go. :) (Also for the last minute beta, because I always wait until the last minute.)

Phil was in his office, catching up on his backlog of paperwork, when there was a distinctive knock on his door. His pen stopped for an instant, and he took a deep breath before calling, “Enter.”

The door opened. Clint walked in; Phil recognized his uniform pants. He didn’t look up from the form he was filling out.

“Brought those reports you wanted,” Clint said.

“Thank you, Barton. Could you set them over there?” He gestured at the corner of his desk. From the corner of his eye, he saw Clint put a folder right where he had indicated, and then just stand there. Phil continued to write.

Finally, Clint huffed out a breath. “Later, Coulson,” he said, and left, closing the door very carefully behind him.

Phil sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He picked up the report he had been working on, now covered in gibberish, and crumpled it into a ball. His obsession with Clint was getting out of hand, and he had no idea what to do about it. He was already screwing up their friendship.

He wasn't any closer to solving his problem when, two hours later, an alert sounded on his phone. _Chemical explosion in Lab 3, Banner and Barton involved, no injuries reported_. There was a feeling of dread building in the pit of his stomach. No injuries reported didn’t mean no injuries at all, and it certainly wasn’t helping to see the words ‘explosion’ and ‘Banner’ in the same sentence, not when the Hulk was a consideration. At least there had been no mention of _him_.

Lab 3 was just a short elevator ride away. JARVIS didn’t have anything useful to add – still _no injuries reported_. He exited the elevator and strode down the hall, turning a corner only to stop abruptly. A cloud of orange -dust? smoke?- filled Lab 3, held back only by the glass walls surrounding the room. The swirling cloud twisted in interesting patterns, and was much too dense for Phil to see anything.

A fit of coughing from down the hall caught his attention. Clint and Bruce were sitting against the wall, attended by a couple of medics. Both men seemed fine, aside from the fact that they were bright orange, and Phil breathed a sigh of relief. He approached cautiously; he didn’t want to stain his suit.

“Hey Coulson,” Clint said, which set off a coughing jag. The medic glanced up at Phil.

“They got their masks on right away, but they still managed to inhale trace amounts of…whatever this is.” She indicated Clint’s arm, which she was scrubbing with an antibiotic wipe. Clint’s arm stayed orange; not even a trace of the color transferred to the wipe. “It’s safe to touch. I think it’s bonded with their skin, hair, and clothing.”

Phil looked at Clint, who raised an eyebrow at him, a challenge in his eyes. Phil looked away. “Both of you get to Medical. We need to make sure your lungs haven’t been damaged. I’ll send someone from R&D for samples, see if they can develop some sort of cleanser.”

Bruce nodded absently as he examined his hand, rubbing his fingers together as if to test the texture of his skin. Clint didn’t say anything, and Phil left them to the medics. There was nothing he could do there.

==

Things were fairly quiet until the day Maria sent Phil out to find Natasha - _because she’s with Barton doing God knows what, and you’re the only person who can track down either of them_. They were doing their God knows what in Coney Island, and hadn’t figuring that out been an adventure? Once Phil had discovered the existence of the sideshow, he knew exactly what had drawn Clint there; Natasha’s reasons were a little harder to figure.

That little mystery was solved when he finally found them. He had followed the crowd that was gathering, drawn by the raucous voice of the MC announcing the death-defying feats of a daring duo, the Delta Dynamos. All that alliteration could only mean one thing. By the time Phil had pushed his way to the front, the act had begun.

Clint was balancing a knife point-first on a fingertip before tossing it up and letting it land neatly in his palm, while Natasha was flipping hers, catching it with ease after it twisted and flashed in the air. At some unknown signal, they each drew a second knife, and performed the same tricks again simultaneously with both blades. Once the third knives came out, they started juggling, moving around the stage until they were facing each other. Then they started tossing the knives back and forth to each other, juggling in ever more complex patterns. Someone rolled a wooden backboard behind Natasha, and Clint started throwing the knives at it, framing Natasha with them, both of them continuing to juggle until they finally ran out of knives. The crowd started applauding. Clint was taking his bows when Natasha pulled the knife from beside her head and threw it at Clint. He caught it, of course, but didn’t stop Phil’s heart from skipping a beat before it started racing. There were gasps from the audience, and the applause intensified.

Both Clint and Natasha bowed. When they began to retrieve their knives from the backboard, the crowd started to drift away to the other acts. Phil let his gaze wander over Clint. He looked well – after repeated use of a special soap developed by R&D, the orange tint to his skin had finally faded almost completely, and he had dyed his hair closer to his natural color. Then Natasha noticed Phil, and elbowed Clint to get his attention.

“Fancy seeing you here, boss,” Clint said. He sounded friendly, almost as if Phil hadn’t been acting like an ass for weeks. This was his chance to get their friendship back on track – it wasn’t Clint’s fault Phil couldn’t deal with his attraction like a grown-up; he could do this. He looked at Clint, and Clint smiled broadly.

Phil’s eyes skittered away. Or maybe not. “An excellent performance,” he said, and then to Natasha, “Hill sent me. She said, and I quote, ‘If you’re late, I won’t share my crème brûlée with you.’ I wouldn’t risk it.”

“Yeah, you know how Hill gets when you’re late for date night,” Clint chimed in, as he pointedly turned away. “Go ahead, I got this.”

Natasha looked between the two of them, and raised an eyebrow at Phil. He shook his head slightly. “Would you like a ride?” For a moment, he was afraid she would decline; she and Clint had ridden here together, and if she took Clint’s bike, Phil would have to offer Clint a ride. Judging by the look on her face, she was considering it.

“Yes, thank you,” she said finally, and Phil had to keep himself from sagging with relief. Natasha traded quick good-byes with Clint, and then strode off through the crowd, forcing Phil to hurry to catch up to her. He barely had time to risk a backward glance at Clint. Clint was staring after them, and Phil quickly looked away.

==

Supervillains always seemed to strike in the middle of the week. Weekends were actually fairly light on supervillainry, which made no sense, but Phil had the statistics to prove it. He theorized that the work week was a stressful time for bad guys.

This particular supervillain – of the unethical scientist bent on revenge for something variety – had developed some sort of mind control device. The good news was that it only worked on animals. The bad news was that the Avengers were facing an army of cats and dogs, and none of them wanted to use lethal force. Hulk had flat out refused to harm any of the creatures, though he had let out a mighty roar when a dog had tried to sink its teeth into his finger.

Luckily for them, the device had a short range. Tony was working on jamming the signal, which had grounded him with some kind of weird feedback that interfered with his suit’s HUD, and the rest of the Avengers were trying to corral the beasts without hurting them, or getting hurt themselves. It actually wasn’t that hard, since the animals were surrounding the building that housed their controller’s nemesis; they were even on the fire escapes and roaming the halls. The Avengers just couldn’t get safely past them to rescue the people trapped inside.

“Look, I can end this in like two seconds,” Clint was saying over the comms. “He’s got the damn thing on the roof. I just need to get high enough, and I can take it out.”

“There are no tall buildings within range,” Phil reminded him. He did much better over the comms; it was easier to remain professional when he was watching Clint through surveillance cameras and satellite feeds. “And there’s no one to fly you up there,” he added. With Tony temporarily incapable of flight, and Thor on Asgard, they were slightly hampered. They really needed to recruit some more flying talent. Phil jotted a reminder to talk to Sam Wilson about the Initiative.

“I have an idea,” Clint said, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Hawkeye, what are you doing?” Steve asked in disbelief. Phil tried to make sense of what he was seeing, but it was just too unbelievable. Was Hulk…lifting Clint? Phil burst out of the mobile command center and took off running down the street.

He arrived at the scene just in time to see Hulk launch Clint straight up into the air like a damn caber. Clint flew up like one his arrows. As he started to come back down, he pulled an arrow out of his quiver, drew back his bow, and fired. The shot hit something on the roof, and there was a small explosion. The effect on the controlled animals was immediate, but Phil only had eyes for man falling toward the ground. Clint was laid out in a plank position, one arm tucked close to his body, the other holding his bow out to one side. He fell faster and faster, and Phil wasn’t sure how this could end well, even with Hulk waiting to catch him.

Hulk leaped up into the air, and caught Clint in his arms. When they landed, Clint hopped to the ground and took a bow. Phil locked his knees to keep from falling to the ground.

“Hulk catch Birdie,” Hulk rumbled.

“Yeah, thanks, big guy,” Clint said. He rubbed his shoulder, and then twisted at the waist with one hand on the small of his back.

“Is everything all right, Barton?” Phil asked sharply.

Clint looked at him for a long moment before he shrugged. “Just some minor aches and pains, boss. I’ve had worse.”

“Have Medical check you out anyway,” Phil ordered, and then he turned abruptly and went back to the command center before he could do something stupid, like haul Clint into his arms and tell him never to scare him like that again.

==

Phil was not particularly surprised when, about a week later,  JARVIS informed him that Clint and Bucky had taken up a dangerous new hobby, and were indulging in it at that very moment. He wrote down the directions that JARVIS gave him and went out into the bright afternoon.

The directions led him to a building under construction. The steel framework loomed above him – not nearly the size of Avengers Tower, but still a goddam skyscraper – and he could make out two figures about halfway up, running along the girders, climbing and jumping between the levels in very acrobatic ways. Phil cursed the existence of parkour, but even if Clint had never heard of it, he would have invented his own version.

It was late afternoon, turning into early evening, and it was starting to get dark. Clint and Bucky made their way lower, taking risks that made Phil blanch. He didn’t consider himself an overly cautious man, but flying through the air to hang by his fingertips from a steel beam was something he did only when someone was shooting at him, not for fun.

Bucky and Clint dropped, Bucky catching himself on the last beam with one hand, and grabbing Clint’s hand with the other. Clint swung out, let go of Bucky at the top of his swing, tucked into a ball and twisted and flipped in midair. He straightened out and his feet hit the ground, and then skidded in the gravel. He fell, thunking his head on the hard earth.

“Clint,” Phil yelled, and ran to him.

Bucky landed lightly on his feet, and hurried over. “Shit,” he said when he saw all the blood.

Clint wasn’t moving. Phil checked his pulse while he dialed 911. Clint groaned, but he didn’t open his eyes.  Phil gave the operator all the information she was asking for, and hung up, his eyes on Clint the whole time.

While they waited for the ambulance to show up, Clint woke up, blinking blearily up at Phil. “Hey,” he said, and tried to sit up. “Ow!”

“Don’t move, idiot,” Bucky told him.

“Head hurts,” Clint mumbled.

“That’s because you didn’t stick your landing. The hell? I thought you said you’ve done this before?” Bucky’s tone was light, but he threw a worried glance at Phil.

“M’foot slipped,” Clint said. His eyes fluttered shut, and he groaned again. “Gonna be sick.” He rolled over onto his side; Bucky jumped back as Clint threw up. “Ugh. I hate puking.”

Clint struggled to sit up, and Phil helped him, taking the opportunity to check his wound. Blood matted Clint’s hair, and stained the collar of his shirt, but the bleeding was already slowing to a trickle. Phil took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the small cut; Clint hissed in pain.

Phil shifted until he was facing Clint. He was still holding the cloth in place, and with his other hand, he tilted Clint’s head back a little so he could check his eyes. Clint’s pupils seemed fine; all of Phil’s first-aid training seemed to have flown out of his head, though, and he just stared helplessly.

“This what it takes to get you to look at me?” Clint asked quietly.

“What?” Phil pulled his hand away from Clint’s face; he’d practically been stroking his jaw. “Of course not.”

“’Cause lately, you only look at me when you think I might get hurt.” Clint held his gaze.

“I-“ Phil didn’t know what to say.

“Why?” Clint seemed to be talking to himself now, his eyes unfocused. “Don’t think I did anything. Did I?” He said the last two words plaintively.

“No, you didn’t do anything.” Before Phil could continue, the ambulance arrived. The EMTs took over, and Phil stood off to one side with Bucky.

“You two are the biggest idiots I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something.” Bucky shook his head. “You’re so busy not looking at him, you don’t see him looking at you. Maybe you should try talking to him.”

Phil had no reply.

Clint was loaded into the ambulance, and Phil hurried to climb in before they could stop him. He caught a quick glimpse of Bucky walking away, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and then the doors were slammed shut, and the ambulance was on its way.

Phil pulled out his SHIELD credentials, shamelessly abusing his authority to get them dropped off at Avengers Tower instead of the nearest hospital. He even felt bad about it briefly. But the Avengers had medical staff on call, and Clint would be less likely to try to escape from JARVIS monitoring him in his own apartment than he would from a hospital room or SHIELD Medical. He called ahead, and they were met at the Avengers’ private entrance by two med techs with a gurney. Clint was transferred to it, grumbling the whole time, which everyone ignored.

They made it to Clint’s apartment without seeing any of the other Avengers; they did actually have lives outside of Avenging, though it was easy to think they were joined at the hip with all the time they spent together. They would probably descend _en masse_ in the morning, once JARVIS – or Bucky – spilled the beans about Clint’s injury.

A nurse practitioner was waiting for them in Clint’s living room. Phil stood off to one side. He usually excelled at ‘unassuming government flunkie’, but the NP kept throwing looks in his direction – he must have been giving off an unintentional ‘menacing government thug’ vibe. Obviously, the whole situation with Clint was throwing him off balance.

Apparently, what he thought was nervousness on her part was actually pity, based on the comforting pat on the shoulder she gave him when she confirmed that Clint had a mild concussion. She gave Phil a list of instructions that they both knew from experience Clint would otherwise ignore, and then she left before Phil could even remember her name. Definitely off balance – he had to do something about this.

Clint groaned as he hauled himself off the couch and crept toward his bedroom, one hand on his head. Phil grabbed some pain meds and a glass of water from the kitchen before following after him. Clint was just lowering himself onto the bed when Phil walked in.

“Don’t lie down yet,” Phil said, brandishing the glass of water. Clint nodded, then whimpered and closed his eyes. “Hold out your hand,” Phil told him when he didn’t open them again.

Clint did as he was asked, and Phil dropped the pills onto his palm. Clint peeped through slitted eyelids at them. “Tylenol? Where’s the good stuff?”

“Mild concussions do not rate ‘the good stuff’,” Phil said mildly. “Here’s some water to wash them down.”

Clint reached out blindly, and Phil placed the glass in his hand. Clint grimaced as he put the pills on his tongue, and gingerly tilted his head back just far enough to take a small drink of water. Then he set the glass on the nightstand and slowly collapsed onto his side. “Ow,” he said. “Head hurts.”

“I know.” Phil stood there, finally allowing himself to take a long look at Clint. He really had been avoiding it, just like Bucky had said, and it hadn’t changed how he felt about Clint in any way. It was time to stop lying to himself.

“Gonna watch over me?” Clint mumbled.

“If you want me to.” He didn’t bring up JARVIS, who had performed concussion watch for the Avengers multiple times since everyone had moved into the tower.

“No chair,” Clint said. “Sit on the bed.”

Once again, Phil didn’t mention the obvious alternative – hanging out in the living room and checking on Clint periodically. He toed off his shoes and moved them out of the way, then joined Clint on the bed, sitting with his back propped against the headboard. Clint was facing the door, his back to Phil.

Clint was quiet for so long, Phil was sure he’d gone to sleep, but then Clint said, “We gonna talk about this?”

Was there any point in denial? “You didn’t do anything. It’s my problem.”

“Problem?”

“I was having a hard time, ah, dealing with how I felt about you. I thought avoiding you would help me get things under control. But you kept doing dangerous things.” It was finally out in the open. Phil felt simultaneously relieved and terrified.

“Tha’s stupid. Doesn’t work,” Clint said. “Already tried it.”

“Ye- excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Clint’s voice was getting stronger, either because he was feeling better, or because he was pissed at Phil. “Wait. You thought that stuff was dangerous?”

“Yes.” Phil drew the word out, giving himself some time to figure out what he wanted to say next. Clint rolled over, carefully, toward him.

“Get down here where I can see you.” And there was grumpy injured Barton. Phil knew how to deal with him. But he found himself sliding down on the bed anyway, laying on his side to face Clint.

“Just so we’re clear, I like you,” Clint said. “And you like me. Okay?” He did sound really angry, but that was probably the concussion talking.

“Okay.”

“I wasn’t the one acting like a jackass,” Clint continued, leaving the _for once_ unspoken. Phil fought a smile. “So the next move is on you. Let’s hear it.” He looked overly grim for someone waiting to…what, get asked out on a date?

“As soon as you’re better, we’re going out to dinner.” That was easier to get out than he’d thought it would be. It was also what Clint needed to hear, because his face immediately relaxed into a content smile. Phil shifted closer and put a hand on his face, rubbing Clint’s cheek with his thumb.

Clint put his hand in front of his mouth, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t kiss me yet, Phil. My mouth’s still gross from puking.”

Phil snorted a laugh, then pressed a kiss to the back of Clint’s hand. “That will have to do for now.” Dating Clint, much like working with him, was going to be an adventure.


End file.
